


Roasted

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Gavin needs a mocha because life sucks.
Relationships: Connor/Gavin Reed, Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 84





	Roasted

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The only thing worse than having patrol early is having to go on patrol with _friggin’ Anderson_. Gavin will never forgive Chris and Tina for fucking off and leaving him high and dry with the oldest fossil in the precinct. Anderson’s car smells like wet dog and drives like a horse-drawn carriage missing a wheel. It’s so old it still has a pre-AI dashboard. The only saving grace is that Anderson haunts the same coffeehouse he does, and they both agree to stop there before they get to work saving the city and tearing each other apart. Then Gavin steps out of the car and it starts pelting rain, because _of course_ it does. Gavin hates everything. 

He can mildly stand coffee. At least it’s so early that there’s no lineup—the polished round tables are almost all empty, one teenager with a laptop huddled up in the corner and no one else in sight. As soon as Gavin and Anderson have tracked wet footprints across the white tile, a pretty blonde android darts behind them to mop it up. 

The baristas behind the counters are both androids. The one at the til is the same one that’s always there, arguably the prettiest one: a soft brunet male with peach skin, a few little moles, and perfectly brushed hair. Not that Gavin looks at androids like that. He hates androids. They take important jobs that they can’t even do right. They can’t make coffee right. It’s always too... exacting. Formulaic. Tastes the same every time. But the brunet has nice eyes and a goofy smile that Gavin gravitates to for _reasons_.

Gavin stomps up to the counter and just _waits_ , because he stands right there just about every day and always orders the same thing. 

The RK800 has a trim white-black uniform that clings to his handsome body, and a small nametag over the breast that reads _Connor_. Connor blinks at Gavin expectantly. It creeps Gavin out when he thinks about how Connor doesn’t _have_ to blink at all. He’s probably just programmed to do that to make humans comfortable. Like how he’s programmed to make coffee for them. And _serve_ them. His hands are folded neatly on the counter, and Gavin knows they’re skilled, but _how_ skilled? He figures Connor has all sorts of highly advanced programs meant for pleasing humans.

Not that Gavin stays up at night thinking about pretty androids jerking him off. That’d be crazy. He’s not crazy. 

He squints, and finally grunts, “I’ll have the usual.”

“We have no items called ‘the usual.’”

Connor’s such a little shit sometimes. His expression is completely blank, utterly neutral, but Gavin’s fairly certain he knows _exactly_ what Gavin meant, and he’s being difficult on purpose, because he’s a piece of shit ken doll with sinister hidden subroutines like sass and maybe blowjobs. 

If he weren’t so dead tired, he’d give Connor a piece of his mind over it, but he hears Anderson grumble behind him and instead grits out, “Hot almond mocha.”

“Almond milk costs an extra—”

Gavin’s already swiped his card. “Eighty cents—you tell me every goddamn time.”

Sometimes Connor also pretends he doesn’t know how many shots Gavin wants or if he wants whip cream or if he wants decaf. Then Gavin will say _like hell you don’t know_ and Connor will give the exact number of clients he’s served since his commissioning, which skyrockets to a different threshold every time. It’d be staggering, if not for the fact that Connor’s _a machine_ and should remember every regular’s order anyway.

This time Connor just pens the order down on a paper cup, asking “Name?”

“Are you fucking—I _gave you my_ —” But he cuts himself off, because Anderson doesn’t need to know he gave his number to an android. An android that never called. Not that Gavin wanted him to. The point is, Connor absolutely knows his name. 

Pen poised on the cup, not even looking up, Connor repeats, “Name?”

Gavin seethes, “Reed. _Detective_ Reed.”

Connor doesn’t look the slightest bit impressed. He sets the cup down, looks right over Gavin’s shoulder, and calls, “Next!”

Gavin _glares_. Androids don’t get to _dismiss_ him. He doesn’t move. A tanned android with close-cropped hair and different coloured eyes collects the cup and starts making Gavin’s drink. 

Anderson sidles right up to the counter, elbowing Gavin aside, and opens his mouth, but just yawns. 

Connor’s entire expression changes. All of a sudden, he’s _smiling_ , the way Gavin’s only seen him do in the back with other androids when there are no customers waiting for him. He greets brightly, “This is early for you, Lieutenant. The usual?”

Anderson mutters, “Yeah,” like he’s still dead tired and it’s no biggie that a totally gorgeous super model has remembered his order even though _he’s a literal dinosaur with shit hair and a drinking problem and Gavin’s fucking better._

Connor plucks up another empty cup. His hand starts writing on its own, but his eyes flicker up, peering at Anderson from under his thick lashes. He even teases, like he genuinely cares about Anderson’s lifestyle, “You should really bring your own travel mug, Detective. It would cut down on waste.”

Anderson just rolls his eyes. He shoves his hand into the pocket of his unkempt jacket, probably searching for change instead of paying with a quick tap of his card like every other sane human being. But Connor chirps, “It’s on the house.” 

Gavin _gapes_. Instead of leaving the cup for his coworkers, Connor flitters behind the looming machine and starts Anderson’s drink himself, chiming, “How is the case going? If you’re not busy after work, perhaps I—”

“ _Are you fucking serious?!_ ”

Connor lifts his brow at Gavin’s outburst but doesn’t give him any more acknowledgment. The other android slides his filled drink across the counter and calls, “Reeb.”

The cup actually reads _Reeb._ It’s a four-letter word. The barista’s an android. An android he sees _almost every day._ And it doesn’t know his name. But it wants to see ugly old Anderson after work and probably suck his wrinkly dick. 

If Gavin needed the coffee any less, he’d chuck it over the counter. Maybe a wet-t-shirt-Connor would make him feel better. But Connor’s already gone back to trying to chat up Anderson, so Gavin snatches up his cup and storms out before he winds up on the other side of the law.


End file.
